


Sing

by swimmingwolf59



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Drabble, Fluff, Hints at major spoilers in here so please do not read unless you are at season 5, I'm still kind of dying over the wedding episode in case you couldn't tell, M/M, Season 5 is destroying me so I needed to write something
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-06
Updated: 2017-02-06
Packaged: 2018-09-22 09:59:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9603038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/swimmingwolf59/pseuds/swimmingwolf59
Summary: John loved Finch's singing.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Season 5 is destroying my ass so yeah...here's this mess. We all need some fluff after that intensity of this show, right? 
> 
> Like I mentioned in the tags, there's hints at major spoilers in here so please don't read unless you've gotten to at least season 4, though to season 5 is recommended.
> 
> Thanks so much for reading, I hope you guys enjoy! :')

John loved Finch’s singing.

There was just something about it that seemed to captivate people. Sure, it wasn’t very strong or in tune, and he would probably only sell one record if he ever made one (because John would buy it secretly), but people were drawn to it, in the same way that they were drawn to a baby bird or a child with a messy face. It had a certain innocence to it, something that made it seem worth protecting, and John loved the hell out of it. The shy, slightly cracking soft voice was _so like Finch_ that it twisted John’s insides every time.

“How come Harry never sings for us?” Root asked, and she actually sounded offended, as if the idea of Finch singing for them had ever occurred to either of them before this moment.

“He doesn’t sing for you?” John replied, and though it was a joke it wasn’t really a lie either.

He’d first heard Finch sing way back when they’d still worked in the library and John had still been guessing what Finch liked to drink first thing in the morning. He’d been walking down the hall with a cup of chai tea latte in his hand, wrong but closer, when he heard soft fragments of an old English rock song he hadn’t heard in years.

Pausing in his tracks, he’d waited, listening. Finch didn’t know he was there, he was just singing to himself in that barely audible, shy little singing voice he had, and John suddenly felt like he could barely breathe. The tune seemed to wrap around him until it became his entire world, his entire focus. In the small part of his brain that was still working he thought about how weird this was, hearing his usually business only and high strung boss relaxing a little and singing a tune to himself, and that was when John started falling probably, just a little bit.

Because Finch singing was…unbearably _cute_.

So he stayed and listened, because dammit the numbers could wait _five damn minutes_ , that voice slowly working its way through the iron walls he’d put around his heart.

It was rare after that, but sometimes John would ask Finch to sing for him and he would actually say yes. Most often it was when John woke up in the middle of the night, panting and sweaty from a nightmare, two seconds away from reaching for the gun on the nightstand table. Finch would always tentatively press against him, as if worried that if he frightened him too much he’d reach for the gun and turn it on _him_ , like John would ever do that, no matter what nightmare still gripped him, and it was only when his warm fingers eventually wiped some sweat from John’s forehead that he would start to relax. Sometimes that was enough, but sometimes the nightmares were so bad that it was hard to calm down and shake himself out of it. They were even worse lately than they had been in the past because now he had something to lose; now he had something he was actually terrified would be ripped away from him if he didn’t do everything in his power to protect it, _him_.

And when it was _that_ kind of nightmare, the ones where he had to watch Finch die right in front of him, he would curl into his partner’s chest, wrap an arm firmly around him, and murmur into his skin a request for a song.

Finch would always scoff at him, but he never said no. With his fingers softly tracing circles in John’s back, he’d begin, almost always picking an old English rock song, as apparently those were his favorite. John didn’t care what he sang; he just wanted to hear his voice. It was just as quiet and hesitant as always – it was amusing Finch was still shy even when it was just John listening to him, but he loved it anyway. Loved it so much that his nightmare was forgotten by the time Finch reached the chorus, and he slid back into sleep with the lingering warmth of love staying with him through the night.

The only other time John could coax Finch to sing for him was when he was working a particularly hard and dangerous number and he just needed to know Finch was there. So quietly, gun pointed at the perp, he’d ask Finch to sing, and if Fusco, Root, and Shaw were off the line, he would. He would never sing for very long, as the work they needed to complete required time and focus, but that little bit was enough. John always felt stronger after that, like no enemy could ever bring him down.

After all, no underground mafia grunt or Samaritan rat would keep him from coming home to Finch’s arms.

“Seriously? Harry sings to _you_?” Root asked skeptically, cocking an eyebrow at him. It was fine if she didn’t believe him; Finch would be mortified if John ever told her. Besides, he couldn’t help but feel smug that Finch chose to sing to him exclusively and to no one else on their little team. It was special treatment only he received, and this was the first time something like that was actually a _good_ thing.

He wasn’t sharing it with anybody.

“He sings to Bear,” he said instead, side-stepping the question. That wasn’t a lie either – the dog was as captive of an audience to Finch’s singing as John was. Finch always sang to Bear when he was giving him a bath, calming the otherwise rowdy and protesting dog, and he apparently liked it so much that his tail would start thumping uncontrollably, which usually ended in Finch having a bath too, but neither of them seemed to mind. Finch’s singing just had that kind of effect, that rare quality to it that made people and animals want to stop and listen to it and feel happy that they could.

So John didn’t mind that everyone got to hear Finch sing now, that their little secret was exposed, because he was damn proud of Finch for filling the role he needed to, for making someone’s day when he didn’t even know them.

It was that kind of compassion that John loved about him, that he’d needed so much to be the recipient of.

And as their eyes met over the wedding crowd, assassins momentarily forgotten, John promised himself one thing: if they ever got out of this damn war with Samaritan alive, if he was ever allowed to have a semi normal life outside of this, he would ask Finch to marry him.

And he would _definitely_ make him sing at their wedding.

**Author's Note:**

> Hit me up on twitter @kaoru_of_hakone if you ever want to chat about anything! :D


End file.
